


in bridges he burned

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel
Genre: Bucky is the best, Coffee, Compulsive Behavior, Concussions, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Rent References, Slice of Life, Snapshots, the usual for Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Clint measures his years in cups of coffee. Bucky has a better idea.





	in bridges he burned

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I got this lovely idea at some point over the weekend and I had to see it through. Here's the result! I don't even drink coffee!
> 
> Dedicated to Jamila who also doesn't drink coffee, and Steph who is horrified by this.
> 
> Title and concept from Seasons of Love from Rent!

Clint has his first cup of the year right as the clock strikes midnight. He counts the bittersweet taste of caffeine made just the way he likes it as his New Year’s kiss. Everyone’s got their lips locked on someone else’s and Clint tries his best not to sneer at the utter ridiculousness of it. It’s a stupid tradition upheld by his teammates and friends – and whoever else Tony invited – right before his eyes. 

Even _Natasha_ , who’s managed to snag Steve. He’s almost jealous.

As the shrill sound of party horns dies down to a loud chatter that makes it impossible for him to focus on anything, he sits next to the one person that might agree with him. He makes sure that Bucky sees him take his hearing aids out and shoving them in his pocket. There’s no way he’ll hear a single word Bucky is saying with all the background noise. Bucky nods in understanding, both at the noise and kissing. All the money in the world and even Tony Stark can’t figure out how to fix that. 

Clint cradles his cup of coffee in both hands, tucking his knees to his chest and watches Bucky watch the room as he takes sip after sip. It’s too soon that his mug is empty and he needs a refill. He grabs Bucky’s attention with one socked foot and jerks his head towards the kitchen, raising his eyebrows and cup in question. He doesn’t wait for Bucky’s response, but once he gets to the kitchen Clint sees that he’s followed. It’s much quieter here, the automatic door whirring shut behind them, so he puts his aids back on with no intentions of rejoining the party. He and Bucky can get along just fine ringing in the new year in relative solitude. 

“Christ, you really drink that stuff just like that? No milk? Creamer? A spoonful of sugar?”

Clint cocks an eyebrow at him, grabbing Bucky’s black heat activated mug from the top shelf of the cupboard. 

“No, Mary Poppins, I like my caffeine as pure as possible. It’s not really about the taste.”

“Oh.” Bucky has clearly never thought about this. “Who’s Mary Poppins?”

Clint snorts, keeping the joke to himself. “Get your sweet stuff and make your own cup how you like it.”

The pot brews loudly, and from here, Clint can see the fireworks going off in the river through the giant glass window in the common area. He almost misses enjoying the celebration, the possibilities of what a new year might bring. The fireworks were the best part. The bright colors, the soft fizzle as they burnt out on their way back down. Some years he wouldn’t be able to hear it, but that only made him excited for the fourth, for the next New Year’s.

After Clint pours his and Bucky’s cups, he waits for the constellations to appear on Bucky’s before he slides it across the counter. Ursa Minor and Orion appear first, then Pisces and Hercules. It really is astounding technology. None of the fancy tech in this building can surmount to the little bit of magic that this little mug harnesses.

“Where’d you get that? It’s really cool.”

Bucky smiles around the rim of his mug. “Strand. The bookstore. You can order them online though, there’s a whole selection.”

“I know what Strand is, Starboy.”

“I’ve heard that song.”

Clint laughs so hard that he nearly spills his coffee. 

–

He’s got a fucking migraine and the kitchen island isn’t cold enough to serve as an ice pack. His coffee is going cold and no matter how hard he pressed his forehead into the marble, nothing helps. It’s his twenty-second cup of coffee since March started, and it’s betrayed him. Clint can barely lift his head, knowing that if he does the daylight and the movement will send another wave of nausea through him and he really doesn’t feel like cleaning up vomit today. 

“ _Hey_ there, Barton,” Bucky voice comes soft over his shoulder. “Don’t move, okay? Jesus, what’d you try to outdrink Steve in here last night?” He’s probably eyeing the entire contents of the bar on the counter.

He tried to drink the nightmares away, actually, but talking hurts his head, so he just grunts. That ends up hurting, too. 

The mug in his hand is swapped out for a much warmer one and two pills clack next to his head. 

“You want water with it?”

Clint shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and manages to sit up enough to pop the pills into his mouth and wash them down with the scalding hot coffee. 

“ _Jesus_ , Clint, don’t do that!”

Clint peeks an eye open to see Bucky leaned comically over the kitchen island, worry written all over his face. His throat his burning, but he’s done this enough to know how many times he has to swallow before it stops hurting.

“Don’t worry,” he grits out, “Done that plenty of times before.”

“ _Why?_ ”

He lets his eyes fall shut again, and shrugs, trying to give it an air of finality. It’s the pain. Bucky has to know that. He’s not going to say it out loud, but Bucky isn’t stupid, he probably gets it. Probably. Subliminally. He’s not saying it.

“Have you been here all night?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna get to bed?”

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “Everything hurts though.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

Bucky is true to his word, making his touch soft but stable enough to support half of Clint’s weight all the way to the elevators. Even though his metal hand is on Clint’s sore ribs, it doesn’t hurt. He lets Clint lean into him, rubs at his back soothingly, almost lulling him to sleep as the numbers tick. It’s nice, it’s so nice, and they make it to Clint’s room in almost no time at all. Bucky is so comfortable, his metal shoulder a wonderfully firm, cool pressure against Clint’s pounding headache, that Clint doesn’t want to let go. His weight drops into his bed anyway, because Bucky lets go. A fresh wave of pain shoots through his head and he can’t help the wince on his face, yanking out his hearing aids and throwing them across the room. Ah, shit, now he has to open his eyes to see if Bucky says anything. 

Bucky’s cold metal hand presses to his forehead, so Clint forces his eyes open.

“Sorry,” he says while he signs it. Oh. “You gonna be okay?”

Clint nods, tears already forming in his eyes. He hates this, hates everything about it. The vulnerability, the inescapable and very real pain. This isn’t something he can play off, or even walk off. It’s all encompassing and makes his stomach turn and it’s the fucking worst. Squinting up at Bucky makes this all very evident. 

“Coffee’s there if you need it. Some more pills too.”

Bucky points to the thermos and little orange bottle on Clint’s nightstand.

Clint groans. “You’re a fucking saint.”

Bucky smiles, shoulders shaking like he’s laughing.

“Get some sleep.”

And then he’s gone.

–

Clint usually doesn’t count lattes or frappuccinos in his coffee tally. But even though the brew that Bucky brought him is sickeningly sweet, it’s sufficient in waking him up as he lounges in the back of quinjet, so he counts it as number eight hundred and four. There’s a spare coffeepot behind his head that he could’ve easily booted up if the latte hadn’t done its job, but he decided to give it a try just for the earnestness on Bucky’s face when he handed it to him. He’d been at Starbucks when they got the call, and Clint had been… fast asleep. No parties involved were surprised.

“So?” Bucky sits down next to him and grins expectantly. “Did you like it?”

“It’s not exactly a rush to the head, but it got the job done. I’m good to go.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean that. Did it taste good?”

“Oh.” His own tone reminds him suspiciously of Bucky’s reaction when he said he didn’t drink it for the taste. “Sorry, I didn’t really notice. Coffee is coffee, I forget to taste it at this point. It’s just caffeine.”

He can tell that Bucky is trying his hardest not to frown, and it surprises him that he can tell.

“That’s okay. Guess I’ll have to take you to get another when we get back. If you’re gonna hot-wire your brain you should at least enjoy the taste.”

Bucky looks at his own hands in his lap, where they’re twisting together nervously. Then Clint clocks the shake of his leg, the hopeful look in his eyes. Is… is Bucky asking him out? This is definitely a post-three-cups-of-coffee conversation and calculation. Clint’s brain battery is only about 15% charged right now. He might be awake, but his thinking is limited to archery-on-autopilot.

“… Yes,” he says slowly. “We should do that.”

It’s literally just Bucky, what the _hell_ is he so nervous for?

But Bucky’s smiling now, so he guesses that might’ve been the right answer. Good. Bucky deserves to be smiling. If he can make that happen, he’s game. He smiles back. 

The quinjet door falls open.

“Alright,” Bucky says as he jumps up. “It’s a date.”

He winks, grinning stupidly, then disappears off the jet.

Natasha bumps Clint in the shoulder, and he doesn’t even have to turn to see that it’s her. He’s just standing there, dumbfounded, and no one else would purposely knock into him. Steve is too polite, he’d say ‘excuse me’ all squeaky and sweet. Tony would squeeze by without saying anything, but avoiding any physical contact, just so he could grumble on his way by. Sam would probably pick him up and move him completely. Wanda would do the same. But Natasha wants to talk.

“What was that all about?”

“I think you know, Tash.”

“Yes,” she says flippantly, “But I want to hear it from you.”

“Me and Bucky… have a date? I think? I’m not entirely sure what I agreed to.”

“He said, ‘it’s a date.’”

Clint’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

It’s a good thing they’re going for coffee, then. Sweet, sweet eight-oh-five might do him some good. For now, he slings his quiver over his shoulder and tries not to think about it.

–

Of course he thinks about it.

He gets knocked out of a tree for his troubles.

–

It becomes a thing, after their date, Bucky bringing him sugary drinks to wake him up. 

Sometimes it’ll be in the early morning when he’s come back from a run, or the gym. It’ll be a latte with whipped cream all piled high that Clint will get on his nose and Bucky will lick right off. 

Other times it’ll be well past noon, when Clint had trouble sleeping and Bucky lets him rest up and he brings him that godawful pink drink that Clint pretends to hate but it secretly makes his stomach settle happily. Bucky will get the biggest size and stick two straws into it and they’ll race to see who gets brain freeze first. 

And sometimes it’ll be the good stuff, the perfect pure caffeine that goes right to his head, black as night. It’ll keep him up after a bad day, keep him from falling into a fitful sleep until he can finally pass out. It’s bad coping, and Bucky tries to get him to stop, but Bucky gets it, and just keeps him company because he asks, sipping from his star mug.

–

Suddenly the year is half gone and he’s past the one thousand mark and Bucky has overheard him mumbling numbers to himself after tallying the days drinks.

“What are you counting over there?” Bucky asks from the other side of the sofa. 

Clint closes the notes app on his phone in a panic. “Nothing.” He’s already had more coffee than he did at this time last year.

Bucky doesn’t buy it, and closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Clint and all but manhandling him in a half-hug half-cuddle. Clint goes easily, tossing his phone onto the floor, out of reach.

“C’mon,” he noses at Clint’s neck where he’s most ticklish. “I won’t make you tell me if it’s private but if you’re not telling me ‘cause you think it’s dumb, then you gotta tell me. You know I don’t judge.”

“But… it _is_ dumb.”

So Bucky plays the waiting game, which Clint hates because it makes him squirm and want to spill his guts, which is exactly why Bucky does it. 

“Okay, _fine_. I count my cups of coffee. Not for like… health reasons or anything just… that’s how I measure my years. Every year I do a tally. I don’t know why, it’s just become a habit. Compulsion? I dunno.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully. “When did you start doing it?”

“About…” He honestly can’t pinpoint it off the top of his head. He goes digging for his phone, opens the notes app. The first entry is from five years ago. “A while ago.” He knows Bucky is looking over his shoulder, knows he can see the exact date of the first note. “It might’ve been before I even started logging them. I think I got mad about losing count after concussions and started making note.”

“Oh. Okay. See, not dumb. Just somethin’ you do.”

“It’s pretty fuckin’ weird.”

“We’re all weird, don’t worry about it. You wanna watch a movie?”

Clint does not particularly want to watch a movie. 

“We can put a movie on for pretenses and have sex instead?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, that sounds more like us.”

–

“What number is that?”

Clint flinches. “Please don’t ask me that.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Bucky goes pale, something Clint has only seen once or twice in the entire time he’s know him. 

“It’s okay,” he amends quickly. “You didn’t know. Just for future reference. It’s a me thing, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Bucky nods, but continues with his head down. “Sorry.”

Clint purposely bumps into him, making them both trip, then wiggles one of his hands into Bucky’s pocket. His other hand is perfectly warm around a steaming cup of coffee. It’s a mocha, not technically a coffee by his standards, but it counts because Bucky bought it for him. He was complaining about his cold hands as they walked Lucky through the park, even though they both know that he refused to bring gloves. He wanted to be able to really grab the leaves off of low hanging branches. 

“It’s really okay. Stop frowning, I’m not upset.”

It’s number one thousand six hundred and twenty six.

Clint pulls him close with their pocket hands and kisses him, coffee sweet. Then he figures that one set of cold fingers wouldn’t be the worst thing, and throws his arm around Bucky’s shoulders instead. He’s satisfied once Bucky’s arm is settled around his waist, holding on tight to the fabric of his coat.

“I just didn’t want to do that,” Bucky says.

“Do what? Pry? It’s fine, seriously. You didn’t–”

“–didn’t want to make you flinch like that. S’my biggest fear. I don’t want you to be afraid of me, ever. Not even for a second.”

“Aw, no, come on.” Clint stops walking, pulls Bucky aside so that they’re leaned up against a storefront window. “You just caught me off guard. I’ve never told anyone about that, and I didn’t tell you not to ask. And I know you won’t hurt me, okay? I could never be afraid of you; I’ve seen you in a bubble bath.”

That blessedly makes Bucky laugh. “Okay. Alright, fine. Message received.”

“Good.” Clint kisses him soundly once more for good measure. “Let’s go home.”

–

There’s nothing to fucking watch on Netflix, ever. Clint’s jamming at the remote, desperately searching for _anything_ to distract him. He’s so tired. He’s so tired that he’s not even thinking that he could ask Jarvis to make him a coffee, or pick a movie for him based on his emotional state. When he opens his mouth to speak and can’t hear his own voice, he hurls the remote at the TV as hard as he can. The screen cracks, right in the middle, and now he feels really fucking bad about that and he remembers when he accidentally threw a baseball at the TV when he was six and now he’s crying and someone's hand is on his shoulder and he’s whirling around and falling off the couch.

His head hits the floor with what he can only assume is a sickening crack. He’s felt it enough times to imagine the sound. But his vision goes for a second, and then suddenly Bucky is standing over him, looking hesitant.

Clint sits up slowly, reaching out for Bucky with his eyes closed. His hand wraps around Bucky’s leg, tugs gently on his soft pants until Bucky is wrapping him up in his arms. He’s safe here. 

He’ll never be safer anywhere than he is right here.

“I’m okay.” He feels out the words carefully. “Can’t hear you, though.”

Bucky pulls back so Clint can see him. But he doesn’t say anything, just searches Clint’s face for something. Probably for proof that he’s not lying. Clint doesn’t blame him one bit. But he is okay, so long as Bucky’s got him. 

And he does. He takes Clint back to bed, slides a fresh cup of coffee into his trembling hands and gently tucks his aids into his ears.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Clint says, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t be. You’d do the same for me. Hell, you have. It’s okay.” 

Clint sips his coffee. It’s so bitter, now that he’s gotten used to the taste of the sweet stuff that Bucky gets him, the stuff that’s stuck on Bucky’s lips when he kisses him. His face scrunches up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It just… tastes weird. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Ah.” Bucky smiles softly. His knuckles press gently to the back of Clint’s neck. “Got you hooked on the good stuff, didn’t I?”

“Fuck off, this is the good stuff.”

Clint reaches for his phone to log the drink. He’s almost to two thousand. The year’s almost up. He’s been predictable, once again.

“Have you seen _Rent_?” Bucky asks after a while.

“No, why?”

“Wow, that might the first thing I’ve seen that you haven’t. Anyway. There’s this song. You reminded me of it. It goes like, ‘How do you measure a year?’” He starts humming a bit, looking for the part he’s thinking of. “‘...Cups of coffee.’ That’s one of them. But then there’s another line.” His fingers dig in just a little bit harder. “What about love?”

Clint’s heart gives a dangerous lurch. But he can’t blame his accelerated heartbeat on the caffeine.

“What about it?” he asks dumbly.

“Could measure your years in love instead. I know that I’m going to, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Clint looks down at his phone, at the half typed note documenting his one thousand, eight hundred and forty second cup of coffee. Then he looks back at Bucky, then back at his phone, and it all seems so trivial. But he makes a point of deleting each note from the past five years, then shoving his phone under his pillow. 

“I think… I think I can do that.”

Bucky smiles brilliantly, and yeah. That’s all he wanted. He can make this work. He can count their inside jokes instead, the amount of times they can make someone groan with their PDA. Clint can count the crime dramas they get through, the amount of people they save. He can count Bucky’s laughs, the number of times he lets Lucky tackle him to the ground. 

Love. Yeah, that works.

–

He’s still going to have his coffee, though.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/183291791314/in-bridges-he-burned-by-nightwideopen-clint)


End file.
